


Fool me once, fool me twice

by Izzie_Armstrong



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Not Beta Read, Post-Break Up, Songfic, Sorry guys, also it's basically a, and a few dark thoughts, bad break up, but im about two decades late to the concept so take it with a grain of salt, jaskier goes through a lot, mention of dying but nothing actually happens, nothing really bad but might be a little uncomfortable, there are a lot of feelings in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22824805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izzie_Armstrong/pseuds/Izzie_Armstrong
Summary: It felt worse than a punch to the gut. He’d received many of those over the years, some more painful than others. Butthis? This was hurting him more than any physical injury had, ever.AKAJaskier walks down the mountain after the argument, and he has a lot of feelings to work through.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 97





	Fool me once, fool me twice

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was inspired by the [new Bond theme song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GB_S2qFh5lU), which absolutely gave me chills first and then reminded me of these two idiots on their mountain. It's not a traditional songfic, but kudos to you if you see the references (they're not terribly well hidden lol). Maybe a tiny bit melodramatic, I just put a lot of my own bad breakup experiences into it.

It felt worse than a punch to the gut. He’d received many of those over the years, some more painful than others. But _this_? This was hurting him more than any physical injury had, ever.

He held his breath as he turned around, afraid that if he didn’t, he would subside into sobbing. Which was _not_ going to happen, thank you very much. He might be hurting like hell, but he still had _some_ semblance of dignity.

Or anyway, that was what he told himself. He did not want to give the Witcher the satisfaction of seeing him be reduced to tears, but inside he felt like he was splintering into a million little pieces. His body was rapidly cycling through _too hot – I’m bursting out of my skin_ and _so, so icy cold – I’m never going to feel anything else again._

He stumbled as he skidded down the path as fast as he dared to. The little stones were giving way beneath his feet, and he had to focus on not falling gracelessly down the side of the mountain. Which did help with not crying, but it did not do much to lessen the aching inside. His stomach felt like it was trying to turn itself over, or maybe devour itself and what was left of his heart.

He should have known that this day would come eventually. The moment when Geralt would finally decide he’d had enough of him, would make him leave. The witcher would probably prefer any other company over his, would sooner be completely alone than have him around. He should have known he’d leave alone. Because who was _he_ to think he was owed anything? Much less be allowed to be a presence in Geralt’s life, to make a path for the two of them.

He had allowed himself to believe that he and Geralt were a pair _,_ of, of _something_ ; friends, companions, weary souls traveling together. But it was a blatant lie, and he saw that now. He had told himself over and over again that for all of the dismissive comments he got, there were also enough good things to make up for it.

But Geralt was a precarious creature, hewn from volatile material. Beautiful. Beautiful and lethal.

And he had been at the receiving end of that destructive force, not for the first time. A little over half a decade ago, hadn’t he almost died? Died at the hands, at the mercy, of his Witcher? 

At the time, he hadn’t spared the incident a further thought, what with being preoccupied with _not choking to death_. But afterwards, when everything had returned to normal (or as much as it could, with the image of _Yennefer and Geralt, **together** ,_ etched into his memory), he had come to a few conclusions.

Firstly, that the djinn had been obeying _Geralt’s_ commands and not his _._ And secondly, that, apparently, he himself was so much of a nuisance that - even after not seeing each other for a fair few months - the Witcher's first instinct had been to make him _shut up by any means necessary_. 

He had almost choked again when he realised that.

But he being who he was, he was quick to forgive his – his _friend’s_ – actions. Fool him once, huh?

And now he was making his way down a mountain that could just as easily lead to his death. If the monsters didn’t get him first, he would surely make a misstep, hurt himself, die from dehydration.

Even with the sun on his skin, he felt cold, cold to his very essence. It felt like he had been walking for hours, even though he knew it could only have been a few miles.

How could he have been so stupid? Why be so _stupid_ as to fall in love with the one person on this Continent that would never even entertain the mere thought of it? And yet he had devoted the last... _22 years_ to the Witcher. He had recklessly abandoned everything he knew, spent the days on the path, dodging attacks of monsters’ and men; all for the sake of helping the man with the white hair. He had wanted to clear his name, turn apprehension into appreciation.

His songs had started out as tales of a heroic witcher, cunningly slaying monsters left and right, interspersed with some rowdy, if slightly inappropriate, crowd-pleasers; but slowly they had morphed into songs of something akin to adoration. He could not resist the urge to serenade the man, the man who formed such a big part of his life. Who _was_ his life.

He had interpreted Geralt’s hmms and other non-committal sounds as signs of approval. And the townsfolk and people all over the lands _were_ improving their opinions on Witchers. Or at least this one, because he did not really _know_ any other Witchers, now did he?

How many of those supposed approving sounds had been uttered in annoyance? How many of them were aimed at him in dismay? He didn’t know. Not anymore.

That’s when the tears finally broke. It _hurt._ He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling as if he might dissipate into a million pieces at any moment. The tears were streaming down his face, and his breath kept hitching in his throat. It just wasn’t _fair. Life was far away from fair._

He felt like dying.

****

But this wasn’t the time to die. Not here.

Not on this godsforsaken mountain with its stupid monsters and even more stupid people. He’d make sure of it. He would go out in a blaze of glory when it was time. But not now. Or anytime soon for that matter, if it was up to him.

He steeled himself against more tears, and finding that it didn’t do much, he just opened his mouth and _screamed._ Screamed at everything that was willing to listen. He put all his frustration and anger and resentment and love into the sound.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

The feelings of the whole day came crashing through him, wracking his body with sobs. So he screamed some more, voice going hoarse, most of the sound lost to the wind.

_Fool him twice._

How obvious had it been to everybody else, that a Witcher and a bard were no good match, on any level? Had other people seen through the lies he’d been telling himself? Did they realise that, yes, the Witcher was currently _tolerating_ him being near, but that that was about all there was to their relationship? Because he surely had not. He’d fallen for his own lie.

He kicked a few rocks over the ledge, watching them fall far beneath him. He imagined that he was kicking his feelings away with them. If it were up to him, he’d burn it all. Burn all those feelings, all those sacrifices, the memories, the instinctive urge to _want to be close to **him**. _

In some small part of his mind, he _did want_ to go back, go back to his white-haired Witcher and argue until they were hoarse and everything would be alright.

But this time, he really couldn’t.

Geralt could do as he pleased, he would no longer be of any concern to him. He wasn’t about to sacrifice himself again, in some delusion that there was something to salvage between the two of them.

No.

He had learned his lesson.

When they first met, he had wondered if staying would mean death or paradise.

Now he knew.

_Fool him once, fool him twice._

**Author's Note:**

> Argh, I just want them to make up already. But in the meantime we'll just fill the void with all our own thoughts, right? If you wanna fangirl with me, you can find me over at [Tumblr](https://tumblr.com/anotherbookwithtornpages)!


End file.
